


The Florist with a Gun

by shoesoftennis



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, 2ptalia - Fandom, Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: 1920s Gangster AU, 2Ptalia, Countries, Hetalia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-31 00:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12664560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoesoftennis/pseuds/shoesoftennis
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has been in the United States for one month. He's checking up on Alfred, but when he's there, he falls in bed drunk with a man who is as secretive as he is cheerful.





	1. Seedy Hookup

**Author's Note:**

> There's some cursing. Mention of sex, pretty tame

_ July, 1925 _

_ Brooklyn, New York _

 

A whiskey glass slick with condensation.

A shoulder. A head.

A laugh.

Soft yet loud, tinkling yet obnoxious.

Music everywhere. In his ears, on the table, across the dance floor. In Al’s mouth laced with white-hot flames. Arthur couldn’t ignore it.

Then–yes, the motel room. Dark and cramped. Musty.

But they made it work.

It was good for when Arthur howled as Al drove deep inside him, making him sweat and clench and pant. Nobody cared. Everybody was doing the same thing.

They fell asleep on top of each other. Spent. Exhausted.

Just the way Arthur liked it.

He slept better than he had in years.


	2. Broken Glass

Morning came and went, stripes of yellow thrown into the room from under the curtains. Al woke up first. He stretched, stared at the carpet painted with sunshine, and then turned over onto his side. He stroked a finger over the slope of Arthur’s bare shoulder, a soft smile turning up his lips. “Darling,” he murmured, pressing a morning-breath kiss to Arthur’s neck.

Arthur stirred. One eye opened, glazed over with sleep. He squinted against the light and pressed a hand to his head, a groan slipping from his bruised lips.

Al’s smile grew, and he leaned over to press another kiss to Arthur’s temple. “Water or joe?” he asked quietly.

“Mm,” Arthur grunted.

“Right, yeah,” Al said. He chuckled, nuzzling Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ll get that for you.”

Arthur grumbled, rolling over into Al’s arms. A wry smile flickered across his face. “Hush,” he said, accent as thick as syrup. “Headache.”

“Sorry,” Al murmured. He curled his arms around Arthur, pulling him close to his chest. Arthur listened to his heartbeat, and Al peppered more kisses over his face, steadily growing closer to his lips.

“Jesus, you smell terrible,” Arthur muttered.

“You don’t smell much better,” Al said, a grin evident in his voice.

“Mm, fuck you.”

“An eloquent love letter.”

“Hush.”

Arthur lifted up a heavy hand and placed his palm against Al’s mouth. He leaned forward, nuzzling into the crook of Al’s neck and humming. His skull buzzed, and his tongue felt desert dry, splitting when he moved it. His throat was scraped raw, and a blush crept up the back of his neck when he realized why.

What had happened last night? He couldn’t quite remember. There was a lot of screaming, he knew that. Kissing. Biting. Thrusting.

Something gnawed at the back of his mind, something strange and cold. A clamminess that cooled the blush on his neck and chilled his hands. But what was it?

He opened his other eye and squinted up at Al. He was gorgeous. That killer jawline, red hair, muscles, but… Red eyes. They seemed to hypnotize Arthur, swirling and contrasting with the bright sunshine, and he wondered if that was what had bothered him.  _ No,  _ he decided.  _ No, it was something else. That’s weird but not quite it. _

“Ya want lunch?” Al asked. “It’s almost noon, ya know. There’s a diner ‘cross the street that’s got some good waffles. Shitty coffee but good waffles.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say they don’t have tea at all,” Arthur said. He pulled the dusty covers closer to his chin, shutting his eyes again. Drowsiness claimed him, pouring over his body as warm as a summer breeze.

“Ya want tea? Sure there’s some place round ‘ere,” Al said. “You been in New York long? Got a favorite?”

“Ask me when I’m not sleeping away a hangover.”

“Aw, darlin’, sorry ‘bout that. Yeah, ya got yourself smoked real good last night. But I’m glad ya did. I gotta explore that kisser ya got on ya. It’s real nice,” Al said, his voice dropping low. Arthur felt Al’s finger trace the shape of his lips and gently pull at the bottom one. “Gonna do it again if ya gimme the chance.”

Arthur smirked. He opened his mouth to reply, his dry lips parting slowly. Too slowly.

One gunshot.

Then two.

Then three.

The motel room window shattered. Glass stuck in the carpet fibers. It gleamed in the sunlight like uncut diamonds.

Arthur didn’t realize until later that he screamed.

Al shoved him off the bed. He shouted something unintelligible. Arthur watched him dive toward his clothes, ruffle through them, and… pull out a gun.

He loaded it. Cocked it. Opened the door.

And shot.

Once. Twice. Three times.

All three direct hits. Somehow.

The gun kicked back violently, but Al didn’t even wince. He shot, cheeks puffed out in concentration. Naked. He was still naked.

_ Oh by God. We’ll be found out. _

A car screeched out of the parking lot, and Al shouted after it.

“Ya goddamn bastards! Come back an’ finish whatcha fuckin’ started! C’mon, ya fuckin’ cowards, c’mon!”

His words slurred together, almost too heavily accented to be decipherable. He shot after the car, wasting bullets. Wasting breath.

“You goddamn cowards! Get back here, ya fuckin’–shit!”

Arthur peeked over the bed. His hands shook; his knees hurt from banging on the floor. The window lay in complete devastation across the carpet, and bullet shells gleamed in the headboard of the bed. One even lay buried in the pillow Arthur had slept on. He stood up on quivering legs and picked it out. He held it in his hand, the metal cool against his adrenaline-scorched skin. He couldn’t die, that wasn’t his fear. His fear was the pain of having this pitted into his skull, of seeing Al run away because he would just keep screaming, screaming, screaming...  He wouldn’t just  _ die _ ... 

Shaking all over, Arthur leaned against the wall. He rubbed his eyes and then reached for his pants. They pooled on the side of the bed, holding his most precious possession–a pack of cigarettes.

He took one out. His fingers wouldn’t stop fucking  _ trembling _ . Did he have a lighter? Yes, he should… he should have one.

He looked for it furiously, turning his pockets inside out, but it wasn’t there. Somehow, some way, he’d lost it. Oh God. He needed a cigarette. He really needed one.  _ Shit _ –

“Looking for this?” Al asked. His voice was gravelly, thick with rage. He produced Arthur’s lighter from the pile of broken glass, flicking the flame to life. “Cigarette,” he said, taking the roll from Arthur’s hands and gently placing it between Arthur’s teeth. He lit it. Released Arthur’s chin. “There ya are, sweetheart.”

Arthur inhaled gratefully, the smoke billowing down to the bottom of his lungs and calming his rattled body. “Thank you,” Arthur murmured. He glanced down then averted his eyes from Al’s extremities. “You should probably put clothes on.”

Al nodded, stepping away from Arthur. “Yeah,” he said. He shut the door then stared at the tattered curtains. They still hung in front of the window, a gentle summer breeze blowing them forward.

“Who was that?” Arthur asked, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then he took another drag, letting the smoke roll from his tongue.

“Not sure,” Al said, tugging on his underwear. “Didn’t get a good look.”

Arthur doesn’t ask why they’re after Al.

He remembered when Al pulled the gun from his clothes what he’d been nervous about last night before the alcohol logged his mind and tore apart his thoughts. He’d seen the gun tucked in Al’s jacket, realizing the mild-mannered florist he’d met wasn’t really a florist at all. What florist carried around a gun?

“Were they from a rivaling gang?” Arthur asked quietly. He looked down at the floor and rubbed his toe over a long carpet fiber.

How had he gotten mixed up in this? What had he done to deserve it? He’d only been in the United States for a month–a  _ month _ –and he was already running with a gang member. And a good one if he could kill three men in three shots.

When he looked up finally, Al’s shoulders were tense. His legs were corded, feet pointed to the door as if he was ready to bolt. “Fuck,” he hissed. He turned, his gaze meeting Arthur’s tentatively. “I didn’t hide it good enough.”

Arthur stayed silent. He took a drag on his cigarette, hands shaking again.

Al ran his hands through his hair. “Which one?” he said, voice rough and afraid. “Which gang am I apart of?”

“I… I don’t know,” Arthur muttered.

“Good.” Al walked toward him. He seemed taller now, more like a gangster than a ballsy florist. He placed his hands on Arthur’s arms and rubbed them hard enough that it was still sweet but firm. A veiled threat. “Keep it that way, sweetheart. Please.”

Arthur looked down. He pressed his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the nightstand, unable to meet Al’s eyes. Who was Al to tell Arthur what he could and couldn’t do?

_ He’ll kill me if I don’t obey,  _ Arthur thought.  _ Or try. He can’t. God, but I don’t want a bullet between my eyes. _

“Arthur.” Smooth like butter. That was what his name sounded like on the gangster’s lips. It wasn’t fair.

“Arthur.”

Arthur bit his tongue to keep quiet. The sharp taste of blood flooded his mouth.

A finger curled under Arthur’s chin, pulling his head up. “Arthur.” Al was insistent, incessant. Jesus Christ, Arthur’s head hurt. “You have to promise me.”

For a moment, Arthur met his lover’s eyes. They swirled, flickered, raged like the depths of hell. He’d met the devil and bedded him. God, what had he done?

“I promise,” he said.

“Good. Now, I’m gonna go smooth things over with the motel manager. Stay here, a’ight? When I get back, I’ll treatcha to lunch,” Al said. He leaned down, hesitated, and then brushed a candy-coated kiss to Arthur’s temple.

Arthur watched him leave, his clothes creased and his hair battling with the summer breeze. The door shut.

He waited for the sound of the lock.


End file.
